why he could live by himself all those years, and .a big, strong man like that. Why he could be the way he was. Why, you don't know—why, he had a picture of my mother on a table in his room, and he'd look at it every night—I've seen him, when he didn't know—and talk to it sometimes, just say a little something that didn't mean anything, like somebody around the house. You'd never guess that, would you?" She paused, regarding him. Then she demanded, " Now, would you?" "No," he replied. "Nobody would," she said. "But that's why, and I'd see him and hear him, and lie awake and want to be like that. And then-----" "Then what?" "Then you," she finished. She rose from the chair, but did not move away from it. The faint light struck at an angle upward across her face, " But it wasn't any use," she said then. " I thought it was, at first. But it wasn't." " It's too bad," he rejoined. " You needn't feel sorry for me," she told him; then added bitterly: "I don't for you. There's others worse. Tol- liver-----" " Tolliver," he repeated, " Tolliver; I hadn't thought of him in a long time." " Tolliver, talking to people all his life, crowds, never being anything except when his voice was talking to crowds; if he had anything in him, any life, sucking it out of crowds, talking. Crowds and women. Never being anything except when he thought somebody else thought he was something. Just that-----" "That bastard," Mr. Munn declared, without warmth. "—like sucking blood, living off something else. That's why he was always after women, not even because he wanted them." " The bastard," Mr. Munn said again. He rose to a sitting position on the bed, and swung his legs over the side to the floor. " That's why he was after me. I know; I could tell."